I'm used to her never leaving our apartment.
If she does, she covers herself
In a head scarf,
Long gloves,
Sunglasses,
Collar turned up
In nighttime and summer.
But she hardly ever leaves
She says the China air
Makes her shrivel
Like a peach
Left in the sun,
Which may be
Because she's turning forty soon.
She says she can see enough of China
From our sixth-floor
Window,
Which may be because
The stairs
Make her knees creak.
But I'm not sure
If any of those
Are the real reason she stays.
YOU ARE READING
Pink Butterfly
General FictionNobody knows i'm different, That my mother is american, That even though i look chinese, I'm american at heart.
